


Five Songs the Vode Sang

by Crystalshard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clone Traditions, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Music, You may need tissues for the first chapter, but it gets funnier I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalshard/pseuds/Crystalshard
Summary: Five Songs the Vode Sang (And One the Jedi Sang for Them)The clones were never meant to have their own culture, but they built one anyway. Their rituals have been built out of pieces of Jedi traditions and fragments of Mandalorian ways, and they've made them their own.From funeral chants to drinking songs, running cadences to lullabies, here are five songs from the troops - and one that the Jedi sang to honor them in return.
Relationships: Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 15
Kudos: 72





	Five Songs the Vode Sang

Plo didn't know which trooper asked first, or which Jedi they got an answer from, but somewhere along the line the clones had picked up the Jedi tradition of burning their dead. 

Before leaving Kamino, they wouldn't have needed traditions. The Kaminoans decided what would be done with the dead, if the bodies weren't simply whisked away without explanation. Here, on the battlefield, the funeral pyres lit up the night. From Plo's perch on a low rock, he could see firelight flickering off the armor worn by living brothers as they cleared droid parts from their temporary camp, and flames painting the heavier forms of the LAAT/i transports in orange as the last few wounded were evacuated to the ships in orbit. The intermittent breeze made loose sheeting rustle, causing the fires to crackle as they spat sparks at the dark, star-speckled sky. It was loud enough to nearly drown out the susurrus of the soldiers speaking quietly among themselves. 

This should have been a rescue mission. 

After the _Malevolence_ , Plo had fought to have the 104th re-designated for search and rescue, and the unspoken gratitude in Woffe's mismatched eyes had been all the proof he needed that this was the right thing. Here and now, they'd been intended to recover as many troops as possible from a crashed Venator. The 104th had raced here in the hope that speed could save an extra handful of brothers. 

Unfortunately, the Separatists had also heard about the downed ship. 

The rescue had turned into a fight, Plo defending his men as they in turn protected the transports that ferried the injured to the relative safety of space. Some of the 37th had been in good enough shape to help, pale green accents breaking up the gray paint of their rescuers. Some made it onto a LAAT/i only to be shot down by Separatist guns. 

They got some of them out. Plo had to remember that. If the 104th hadn't been there, none of the 37th would have made it out alive. 

His eye caught on the nearest pyre. There were gray stripes among the green-painted plastoid, familiar tattoos among the faces he didn't recognize. Briefly, he wondered why the troops never cremated their brothers in their helmets unless the armor simply couldn't be removed. 

Plo inhaled through his mask, and turned his head. A familiar figure trotted past, holding an unfamiliar helmet - Sinker, and part of Plo's tight-wound worry relaxed at seeing one of the Wolfpack alive and well. 

There were more troopers carrying extra helmets, Plo noted absently. Many of his own troops had green-painted or shiny-blank ones, but the few from the 37th who'd been spared injury all held green as well. 

_Boom._

Plo jumped, but none of the troopers reacted to the potential threat. Instead they dropped to the ground, placing the extra helmets in front of them. It didn't seem to matter if they were kneeling or cross-legged or stuck their legs out straight as long as the helmets were in touching distance. 

_Ba-boom._

This time, Plo looked. There, on a rise, against the remains of a LAAT/i, stood Wolffe. It was hard to tell whether he was carrying something or whether he was beating out the rhythm with his fists, but every time he struck the hull it produced that deep drumbeat. 

_Ba-boom._

The drumming picked up, echoing from the empty helmets in weaving, complex patterns, underlain by the bass of the troops stationed by other transports. It vibrated through the air, thrummed through the ground, and caught up every cell of Plo's body in its resonance. 

Under the tireless beat, a chant slowly became audible. Hundreds of rough voices snapping out syllables together in quick tempo, as if their voices themselves were drums. Mando'a, Plo thought, from what he knew of the language, but not the slow song of mourning he'd heard from the files Obi-Wan had given him. 

The chant stopped for a moment, and Wolffe lifted his voice alone. "Aay'haaaaaaaan!" 

Mourning and remembering. Plo knew that one.

The rest came back in on the beat, as if they'd practiced together for weeks, and the words poured out of the grieving soldiers. The same four lines, looping again and again, growing louder as the shinies picked up the chant and joined in. 

_"Ni su'cuyi, kar'tayli gar gai,  
Gar kyr'adyc, gar aalar n'aaray.  
Ni partayli, gar oyaci o'r ni,  
Gar darasuum, taabi'la at yaim."_

Their focus was nearly enough to swallow Plo's mind whole. Every trooper, every soldier who called forth sound from the buckets of those who could no longer speak, every commander and captain and sergeant, every mind and soul singing to the same beat as they screamed defiance to a galaxy that would silence them. 

_Ba-ba-BAM._

For a moment, all Plo could do was breathe in the abrupt quiet. The soldiers began to shuffle away, heading back to whatever their duties were, but Plo remained where he was. He wasn't sure he could get up after the display which had caught him up in its current and left him drifting. 

The solid anchor of Wolffe's hand settled onto Plo's shoulder, releasing him from the spell and letting him look up at his Commander. "Are you alright, General?" 

"I am . . . perhaps a little overwhelmed," Plo admitted. Wolffe's hand tightened its grip. "Thank you for permitting me to witness that." 

Wolffe nodded slowly. "I can teach you the chant, General. If you'd like." 

Plo swallowed at the offer. "I would very much like to learn whichever of your traditions you are willing to share, Wolffe." 

The corner of Wolffe's mouth turned up. Just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> To the tune of _Dha Werda Verda_. 
> 
> _Lyrics:_
> 
> Nu - kyr - adyc - shi - taab - e - chaaj - la  
> Ni su'cuyi, kar'tayli gar gai  
> Gar kyr'adyc, gar aalar n'aaray  
> Ni partayli, gar oyaci o'r ni  
> Gar darasuum, taabi'la at yaim 
> 
> Aay'han *HUH* *HUH* *HUH* *HUH*  
> Vod ~*HUH* e  
> Ver *HUH* *HUH* de  
> Gar *HUH* *HUH* cuyi  
> Mav *HUH* *HUH* tome 
> 
> Ni su'cuyi, kar'tayli gar gai  
> Gar kyr'adyc, gar aalar n'aaray  
> Ni partayli, gar oyaci o'r ni  
> Gar darasuum, taabi'la at yaim. Vode!  
> 
> 
> _Translation:_
> 
> Not gone, merely marching far away  
> I am alive, I know your name  
> You are dead, you feel no pain  
> I remember, you live in me  
> You are eternal, marching on home 
> 
> Remembering and celebrating  
> Siblings, warriors, you are free together 
> 
> I am alive, I know your name  
> You are dead, you feel no pain  
> I remember, you live in me  
> You are eternal, marching on home. Siblings!


End file.
